


Attempts at Book Buying

by crwatters



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bickering, Crowley creates mild inconveniences no matter what his form is, Established Relationship, M/M, POV First Person, POV Outsider, Social Media, almost think I should tag this as a crackfic, bc I dig myself into holes like this, content warning for a brief appearance of Gabriel in chapter 4 pfft, local cryptids, mentions of celtic history, some infinities are bigger than others, speculating about a strangers sex life, supernatural entities, they act like an old married couple lol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2020-06-24 20:12:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19730944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crwatters/pseuds/crwatters
Summary: From an unnamed OC's point of view. Snippets of failed attempts to purchase books from AZ Fell's bookshop. Absolutely no books will be bought in this fic, but there will be plenty of angel/demon shenanigans! No set plot, and I'll mark it complete when I feel like it. Let's find out how many chapters this thing will have together.Inspired by @itsclydebitches 's picture fic on tumblr (the Yelp review one. It's on it's way to getting famous, I believe. Go check it out!!)Occasionally beta'd by the wonderful @apollosukulele!! <3





	1. Meet the husbands

**Author's Note:**

> No negative reviews please. I'm aware this setup is "cringey" but I'm just having a good time here. Don't like, don't read.  
> However, positive comments, comments with fic recs, comments about completely unrelated subjects, these are all welcome!! In fact the attention would make me happier than snake!Crowley in a patch of sun.  
> Happy reading!!

I'm just your average 23-year old, really. Your average shy, knitting, booking-loving 23-year old nerd.

Now, being an irredeemable bibliophile and all that, I can't help but seek out every strange little bookstore I hear word of. And yet, A.Z. Fell's is possibly the strangest and most lovely book shop I've ever come across.

I first heard about it not long after my move to Soho. I was at the park, seeking out a good tree to keep me company, when I passed two women finishing a clandestine meeting, as one does. Their conversation had lapsed into idle chatter.

“--big as can be, I tell you.”

“My word! A bookstore with a pet snake, I've never heard such a thing. A cat, certainly, but a snake? That's one for the--”

“Excuse me, ma'am,” I interrupted. They both turned to look at me, and I noticed the purse between them had a snoozing dog in it. “Did you say there's a bookstore around here with a snake?”

They both looked thoroughly rattled. You're not supposed to interrupt people meeting like this, I know that, but this was about a new peculiar bookshop! It was the one subject that always made me forget my shyness. I couldn't not say something.

“We weren't talking, we don't even know--”

“Of course you weren't, I don't care, bookshop?” I waved a hand and wished she would get to the important bit.

Her not-acquaintance scrunched her nose at me. “A.Z. Fell's, just down the way. Not sure I would call it a shop, though, the snake is a bit of a guard dog, the owner only takes cash and is only open when he feels like it.”

“Perfect,” I said delightedly. “Thank you kindly!” Every bit the dork I am, I skipped down in the direction she had gestured.

Took me a bit of wandering, since she hadn't mentioned the crossroads, but eventually I came across it. Little red-brown corner building. Looks like the kind of place that would have an early edition Shakespeare, or maybe a book of odd knitting patterns.

Honestly the last thing I needed was another pattern book when the pile of never-finished yarn disasters by my bed continued to grow. But well, even if I never made the patterns inside, knitting books were interesting to flip through. And I had a reputation to uphold at the knitting circle as the one with the strangest ideas.

23, I swear. Even if most the people I call friends are two or three times that.

You might start to understand why I made a hobby of finding bookstores instead of going to parties or hosting poker tournaments, or whatever it is that people my age tend to do off-line. I do have a rather aesthetic Instagram though. Couple hundred followers, nothing much. Not enough to have a social life online either. I also occasionally post fanfiction on a different site, and the comment section is about the extent of my human interaction online, unfortunately.

Anyway, Fell's. Closed, this morning. “Until we open again” proclaimed the little sign in the window, with a doodle-snake under the words. Hmph.

Well, it was the middle of the week, so they had to open at some point during the day, yeah?

I went down the block to a Mediterranean restaurant, enjoyed some falafel for lunch, and came back in the early afternoon.

Open read the sign. Excellent, thought I.

A little bell dinged when I pushed the door open. Classic.

The first thing I noticed was the organized chaos that all small bookstores have. Worn down display case by the door, piles of books by the (vacant) register and at the end of neatly-labeled aisles.

The second thing was the smell. Fell's possesses the old-parchment smell that any decent store does, but there was more to it. Something that vaguely reminded me of old spice, and the smell of lingering smoke from a fire that happened long ago. Put me a bit on edge, to be honest.

I padded down the nearest aisle, feeling a bit as if I was coming home to a place that was never truly mine. An off-putting comfort. The books enthralled me as they always do, however, and I soon forgot my unease. This was the ‘Mystery’ aisle, organized by century the mystery took place in (both fiction and nonfiction works it seemed), and then by how “solved” the owner (Mr Fell?) thought they were. I also came across what looked like an old journal on the 1600’s shelf. The sticky note on the cover told me it was placed there not because “there is any mystery contained in these covers, rather the entire thing is a mystery. No idea how I got it, or who wrote it.”

Seemed like a perfectly reasonable sorting to me. I was halfway through an entry about the (presumably male) author complaining about how his neighbors wouldn't stop complaining about the ever-changing prices of grain (“grane is the fiklest fud to ever exist, of coors the prices are changing”), when I was interrupted by a man who certainly didn't belong here.

“Move, out of the way, store's closing,” a tall emo said as he approached, making a shooing motion.

“Absolutely not,” I protested. “It just opened a little while ago!”

“Crowley, quit accosting the customers!” a voice called from a few aisles over, followed by rushed footsteps.

“Crowley” stuck his hands in the pockets of his skinny jeans. He tilted his head back and considered me, a scowl forming on his vampire-pale face.

I bristled, and opened my mouth to tell what exactly I thought of his manners. I quickly closed it, however, when a kind-looking plump man rounded the corner.

“For goodness sakes, Crowley, I asked if you wanted tea, not if you wanted me to close up shop early.’

“Be as that may,” the rude emo? goth? (the tattoo by his ear made me reconsider) stranger drawled, “you only have the one customer, and we both know what happens after tea.”

“I do think you can go one afternoon without your nude sunbathing.”

I raised my eyebrows. Mr black-jacket-on-black-shirt-with-black-sunglasses really was a class-A controlling jerk.

“That is not what I meant and you know it! Besides, it's tradition, angel.”

“Leave him alone,” I finally interjected, pissed. “Mr Fell,” I looked at the kind old man questioningly for confirmation, “here is a nice man just trying to run his business! I don't know what you think your place is here but you should scamper off and quit taking advantage of his charity,” I fumed. Crow-ley was slack-jawed and (hopefully) thoroughly scolded. I turned back to Mr Fell. “I'm afraid we haven't met before, but this is quite the interesting bookshop you have Mr Fell, and you seem quite kind. Do you think we could go up to the register so I might buy this book?”

I'd previously had no intention of trying to buy the little mystery diary, but my irritation at overgrown emo made me petty. This customer was worth Mr Fell's time, I'd show him.

Crowley burst into laughter. Clutching his stomach, the whole shebang.

Mr Fell threw him an exasperated look. “Just ignore him, dear. That is quite the interesting book you have there, but I'm afraid now is not a good time for purchases. Come back tomorrow and we can discuss it,” he smiled in only the way a fellow bibliophile can.

I shook my head, put the book back, and smiled back, placated. Poor Mr Fell. He didn't deserve to have to deal with that mess of a man. But I wasn't going to make things even harder for him.

“Alright, then, I'll be back tomorrow, about the same time,” I exhaled heavily, still trying to ignore cobwebs-for-brains. “I'm excited to hear your thoughts on this mystery book!”

Mr Fell positively beamed, “Excellent, dear, see you then.” He showed me out the door, flipped the sign to Closed, and locked it.

I shook my head. Strange place. I couldn't wait to come back.


	2. A seemingly snickering serpent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our main character returns once again in an attempt to purchase something, and instead meets the store's (in)famous snake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How does our MC work at a bakery and yet have a few hundred pounds available for book purchases? Not sure yet, I'll figure that out eventually. In the mean time, please come up with your own theories ;)
> 
> Minor edit at the end to fix continuity error bc Soho is a lot smaller than I thought it was

The following day was a Thursday, which meant I was opening the bakery I'd started working at a month ago (I know I actually have a job, shocking).

I wasn't particularly fond of starting work at 4:30 so the store would be ready at our 5:30 opening, but it was a nice job. I loved the smells and the kids that came by to gawk at the pastries, even when their parents refused to buy them more than a simple scone. My boss was nice too, Ms Winsley, an older woman with strong arms and a sweet tooth.

I'm not an old lady, I swear, I'm just a magnet for them.

 _Anyway_ , I told her about the bookstore (she likes to read about old Celtic traditions in her downtime, so odd historical books have a special place in her heart). Ms Winsley said the store sounded faintly familiar, but she didn't think she'd ever been. She urged me to ask Mr Fell, while I was there, about if he had any books where the Romans had recorded anything of the old tales about Brighid or perhaps Ceridwen. Being Celtic deities, their myths were passed down orally, so most historians were severely lacking in knowledge about the subject.

I have yet to figure out _why_ she is so interested in the old Celts, but coming up with theories had quickly become one of my favorite pastimes on the slow days. Perhaps she believed she'd lost a family member to the fae. Maybe she was a Celtic pagan herself. Or perhaps through some strange twist she'd been snatched away from her old Celtic family at a young age by a time traveler and was continuously trying to fill in the gaps in her memory of her own culture. Or perhaps she was an aspiring time traveler herself and there was some sort of knowledge test you had to pass before being allowed to go back to a certain time period. I suppose it could've just been extreme curiosity, but that's more boring.

Ms Winsley couldn't come with me this time, she said, but promised to pay me back whatever it was if he did happen to have such a book. So after work I set out to buy two books this time, if at all possible.

I stopped at the ATM next to the bakery, and withdrew a few hundred pounds just in case, remembering what one of the park ladies said. Tucked the wad in a small pocket on the inside of my jacket, rather than my wallet. Eggs in one basket, all that.

Since I'd been on my feet all morning, I hailed a cab instead of walking the 3 kilometers or so to the bookstore. The cab driver shook his head when I told him my desired destination, but refused to comment on the matter. “I just do the drivin, not the tellin,” he said when pressed.

Honestly.

When I arrived, the bookstore looked the same as it did yesterday, except this time I didn't have to go eat falafel to see an “Open” sign on the door.

 _Ding_.

The register was once again empty. I went looking for Mr Fell this time though, since we promised to discuss. I eventually found him near the back of the store, curled up on a sofa thoroughly engaged in a book. A tea service was set up -- still hot -- on the little coffee table in front of him.

But that wasn't the surprising thing, at all, nooooo.

The surprising thing was the giant _fucking_ **_snake_** lounging across his lap and over the back of the sofa, head resting on his shoulder. When I'd thought shop snake I'd thought cute little overgrown corn snake or something. In a terrarium. Eccentric, sure, but not a massive _serpent_.

It was a good 2.5-3 meters, _at least_ . Looked like some cousin of a ball python maybe. I didn't really know much about snakes except for your _standard_ pets.

Black with red accents, yellow eyes. Some primitive part of my brain registered this as a glowing danger sign. I shoved that part down. Surely Mr Fell wouldn't be lounging with it so casually if it was dangerous. Besides, most snakes didn't deserve the reputation they got, I mentally reassured myself.

I only registered I was still staring when the serpent lifted its head from Mr Fell's shoulder. It flicked its tongue in my general direction ( _just smelling who I am, nothing malevolent_ ). This got Mr Fell's attention, and he looked up.

“Ah, welcome back!” he grinned.

Suddenly my body remembered it could move. “Er, hi,” I lifted a hand meekly.

Mr Fell's lips twitched. “Old Crawley here giving you a scare? Don't worry, he's quite nice actually.”

The snake looked at him and gave a warning hiss, but he didn't seem at all bothered. Mr Fell just patted its side.

“C-crawley?” I stuttered, then silently cursed to myself. Once I had regained my composure, I continued. “Like that rude man who was in here yesterday? You named your snake after _him_?”

Mr Fell chuckled. “No, that was Crowley, dear. Though the name thing is something of a joke between us,” he paused thoughtfully, “but don't you worry, he named himself.” The bastard _winked_ at me.

To make matters worse I couldn't tell if he was referring to the snake or the man in that last bit. Blinking a couple times, I looked at the tea service.

“Right, er, could you put him away now or whatever it is? I'd like to discuss that diary with you, and I have an inquiry about books on a different subject.”

The snake started to move towards me, with a mischievous look in its eye (since when could a snake look mischievous?), but Mr Fell caught it gently around the neck and tsk'd gently.

“Behave, Crawley,” he addressed the snake before my question. “I'm afraid there's no ‘putting him away’, dear. Crawley is his own snake, and goes where he pleases. But if you're afraid of him, perhaps he can _go take a nap somewhere_.”

Crawley yawned real big in response. His mouth was _huge_. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was both being sarcastic and trying to scare the living daylights out of me.

I was not going to let a _noodle_ scare me away from a bookstore. I steeled my nerves and half-glared at it. “No, that's alright, Mr Fell, I'm sure we can get along,” I said sweetly, still eyeing his overgrown scarf.

Mr Fell looked vaguely impressed. “Very well, take a seat then,” he waved at an armchair next to the coffee table I hadn't noticed before. Crawley slapped the man slightly with his tail. He pretended not to notice, although it must've hurt, as thick as the snake was. I shook my head as I sat down.

“Right, thank you. So the note on the diary's cover said you didn't know where you got it? How is that possible? Seems to be a rare text.”

“Ah, yes, it is, but there are many rare books around in here,” he primly poured a cup of tea and passed it to me. “It, and a few others, just appeared in the shop a while back. The day my store almost, but not quite, caught fire.”

My eyes widened. “Fire?! That's awful! Who tried to set it? Did you catch them?”

“No one tried, dear, it just did, er didn't, happen. Knocked over a lit candle.”

“You lit a candle in here?” I asked, incredulous. This man was a bit touched in the head, kind as he seemed.

“Yes,” he let out a small, pained sigh. “Anyway, as you can see, everything's fine. Of the new books I received, that's the only one I shelved in the mystery section, as I knew the authors of all the others.”

I wanted to press the candle issue, but decided to keep my mouth shut. I sipped the tea, some sort of sweet herbal blend -- quite pleasant, actually.

“So, do you think it catalogues any important events?”

Mr Fell shook his head. “I'm afraid not. But it could provide meaningful context to a research project, if you're looking into that time period. Records of droughts and the economy, and cultural subjects, like most diaries.”

I nodded. “The author seemed quite upset that people were complaining about the grain prices.”

He smiled knowingly, “ah yes, that entry was quite amusing,” then chuckled. “Humans find the oddest -- and sometimes most interesting -- things to complain about. Complaining about someone else complaining never fails to delight me.”

That was one thing I liked about talking to other book collectors. Each one had their own unique take on humanity, most on the fond side. My harmed warmed, once again, to Mr Fell. I looked at his snake, feeling braver now. It has settled back down on the sofa, watching us passively.

“And what do you think, Mr Snake? Do you find it amusing too?”

Mr Fell's lips twitched at my amusement, or so I thought, until the snake _nodded_. Fell glanced to see the look on my face, and grinned. “Crawley is a tricky one,” was all he said.

I looked down at my teacup, trying to convince myself I wasn't seeing things. It was nice china. Quite tasteful, actually. I left out a breath. Blue and green florals, with gold accents on the handle and rim. Fit nicely in my hand. I drank the rest of my tea.

Well, there was only so much strangeness one could take. Even if I normally sought it out. I continued trying to convince myself I wasn't being cowardly as I got up to leave.

“Thank you so much for the tea and everything, Mr Fell, but I'm afraid I must get going. Perhaps we can finish this conversation another day?”

“Absolutely, dear,” his eyes twinkled as he took my empty tea cup. “It's been wonderful having you, and I'm sorry if Crawley frightened you.”

“It's alright,” I nodded absently. I headed for the door, and he got up to see me out. I didn't look to see if the snake had come too.

Polite as could be, Mr Fell held the door open for me as I left.

“Have a _wonderful_ day!”

I managed a smile over my shoulder. “You too!”

I was halfway through the walk home when I realized I'd forgotten all about Ms Winsley’s request. I sighed, deciding to take a nap as soon as I got home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love snake!Crowley lounging about the store. And I'm sure the ineffable husbands had a little tiff after Aziraphale started telling customers his snake form was called Crawley, but Crowley eventually gave in and they shared a bottle of wine. They're so domestic yet know how to bicker akfdjszndkal


	3. He's MARRIED to the bastard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I'm not British or Celtic or even European so if there's any such errors please tell me. Also I used a translator site for the bit in Latin, so yeah.
> 
> I did, however, do a fair amount of research for this chapter! I'm not usually much of a history nerd, but rn my browser history would tell you otherwise lol. Not a lot of my research actually ended up making it into the chapter, but I'm sure we'll see snippets of it in any future chapters I do. I'm a hoe for learning and sharing interesting shit.
> 
> This took a good bit out of me, which is why it took longer than the first two chapters, but I still quite enjoyed writing it!!
> 
> minor edits to fix typos and a continuity error about shop organization

My boss was thoroughly amused by the whole thing when I told her what had transpired in the bookshop. I, of course, apologized for forgetting her inquiry, but she told me not to worry about it and to “put those rolls in the oven already!” 

I shook my head and tended to the baking goods. A few hours later, about halfway through my shift, I said to her, “You're more than welcome to come with me next time I head to Fell's. That way your question won't be forgotten.”

Ms Winsley smacked me lightly on the head, to the amusement of the young woman who was currently paying for her scones and tea. “You know you've got three times the memory I do, young one. Besides, I think this is something you've got to work through on your own.” 

She grinned like a cat with a canary (seriously, what was so funny about this?), and gave the young woman her receipt. I rubbed the back of my head, irritated. It didn't really hurt, but she didn't need to know that.

It took me another week to get myself past my reluctance to return alone. And then a few more days to actually _go_. It was midafternoon on a Monday by the time I found myself walking in the direction of the bookshop.

But when I got there, a cheery little sign on the door informed me, “Closed most Mondays, including this one. See you soon!” 

I groaned. Of course. Why couldn't Mr Fell keep a blasted schedule? Or at least post the days he tended to close early/open late/not be open at all?

I decided to try again tomorrow. Shaking my head, I called a taxi and went to visit my grandparents. They were always happy to see me. Besides, they were the ones responsible for my move to Soho. Bought me a whole bloody townhouse so I could stay closer to them and not worry about rent. A visit was the least I could do.

Tuesday morning found me once again in front of Mr Fell's shop, grumbling about wanting to ‘get this over with’, and ‘buy a fucking book’, and how he ‘better be open this time or I'll kick him down to hell myself’, among some obscenities. 

Thankfully, the shop was open this time, and I went in the door without trouble. Well, except that I almost tripped over the snake. He was far enough inside that the door didn't smack him, but close enough to the door that my foot did. A loud _HISS_ alerted me to my grave error.

“Whoa! Sorry!” I said, scrambling to get _in_ the bookshop but also _away_ from him. Crawly quit hissing, and just stared at me for about a minute as I inched closer to the mysteries aisle. Once he finally decided he'd terrified me enough or whatever, he turned and slithered away, past the (always) empty register.

I let out a shuttery breath, and looked at the ceiling for a bit. I wasn't afraid of snakes, so why did he freak me out so easily? _Because he's so bloody big_ , my mind unhelpfully provided.

Moving on. I ran a hand through my hair and looked at the bookshelves. I quickly found the journal, and picked it up. I flipped through it, and hesitated. Was this really the one I wanted to buy? Just because it was the first one I was intrigued by didn't mean I had to. There were almost definitely stranger books in this place.

On an impulse, I sniffed it. It smelled good, as all older books do. Like it'd _been_ places. I tucked it in my arm. I could have a look around, put it back if I came across a different one that I wanted instead. Or perhaps I could buy two books for myself. Didn't really matter. I knew most of my money from work needed to go to savings, but for now, rent was covered, and I had few financial worries. I could afford this, if I wanted to.

I had barely gotten to the next row before a frazzled Mr Fell found me, followed by a lanky sauntering emo. I tried not to scowl at him. I smiled nicely at Mr Fell. 

“Good morning!” I said, attempting to be chipper. 

“Good morning, indeed,” he smiled warmly. Crowley didn't so much as look at me. He frowned down at Mr Fell's collar, and flattened down the edge that had been sticking up a bit. Mr Fell didn't seem to notice or care how close the man got.

I felt my brows pinch together a bit. “And er, good morning, Mr Crowley,” I tried.

Still didn't look at me. Had sunglasses on though, so I suppose he could've glanced without moving his head. 

“Hm, yeah, I guess,” he said. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Turning back to Mr Fell, I asked, “Do you have any books on the old Celtic religion? Told my boss, Ms Winsley, about this store, and the Celts are one of her passions. Requested I ask. She's particularly interested in the goddesses Brighid and Ceridwen.”

Mr Fell lit up, and actually clapped his hands together. “Oh, I just might! It's hard to find anything on them since--”

“--it was mostly an oral tradition,” I smiled.

“Exactly!” he beamed. Excitable old man. I shook my head a little, and my heart warmed to him a bit more.

Mr indecent felt like interrupting our little moment, of course. “Well since you are getting along all chum-like, I'll be back in the lounge, angel. See you when you're done gushing over your books with the customer,” he put up a hand as he walked away. 

I bristled slightly. How rude! I just couldn't understand him, all here-im-fixing-your-collar and “angel” and then just calling me “the customer”, avoiding eye contact, and overall just being _like that_. 

“Does he have blackmail on you or something? Why do you just let him push you around and insult your business like that?” I asked Mr Fell in a low voice. “I can help you get rid of him if he's just taking advantage,” I added (wasn't entirely sure that was true, but I could _try_ ).

Mr Fell gave a startled laugh. “Oh that's sweet of you, dear, but I assure you, if I didn't want him here, he'd show himself out. And I'm sorry he bothers you and the other customers, but that's just how he is. Gets grumpy when our alone time gets interrupted. And as for bothering me, well, I do suppose I signed up for it,” he chuckled, waving his left hand at me. 

I'll be honest, I gawked. There, on his ring finger, was a black and silver wedding band. He was fucking _married_ to the bastard. 

“Divorce him,” was what I wanted to say, but didn't. The words couldn't make it out of my mouth. After a minute or so of Mr Fell watching bemusedly watching my facial expressions, he patted me on the shoulder.

“There, it's alright dear. I appreciate your concern, but I'm afraid it is a tad misplaced. Now, Brighid and Ceridwen, you said? I think I might have something over in history, or perhaps non-abrahamic religions.”

I nodded, and followed him some rows over. None of the bookshelves in this area were labeled, but at a guess, this was the ‘history’ section. Mr Fell gently shifted through a few different shelves. Eventually, his hand landed on a faded leather folio. 

“Aha! I believe this is the one I was thinking of. Come, best get my gloves on.” We walked over to a little table near the end of the aisle, where he set down the folio before pulling a pair of delicate-looking gloves from one of his pockets. After putting them on, he opened up the folio.

I peered curiously over at it. Loose sheets of yellowed paper and some sort of fabric were inside, covered in varying scripts. Latin, and Gaelic, it looked like. 

Of course. Should’ve considered this, honestly. I know a smattering of basic Latin, but not enough to make sense of these letters or reports or whatever they were. As for Gaelic I was hopeless. That was, of course, assuming the language even _was_ Gaelic, and not some long-dead cousin.

Mr Fell carefully shifted through the sheets (leaves? I’ll admit my bibliophilic nature could not hold a candle to this man -- how were these not in a museum?), squinting at the pages.

And, apparently, skimming them. _Skimming_ old Latin and Gaelic. He murmured something to himself, then pointed to a paragraph on one of the Latin sheets.

“Here, look,” he said quietly, eyes not leaving the text. “This is a letter from a Roman soldier stationed on the part of Britain the Romans had conquered in the second century A.D. I am unclear what relation he has with the man he’s writing to, perhaps a cousin? Anyway, the recipient appears to live closer to the heart of the Roman Empire. The author of the letter is questioning orders and what they’ve been told about the Celts. I dated it based on his mention of the wall in addition to the talk about the Celts. It starts here, and then he goes into some depth about the rituals done in winter honoring Brighid.” 

I look at the first paragraph he’s been referring to.

_Gratias ago deo, quod licet ego ad murum, miror, si aliquando posset facere pacem cum Celts. Eorum religio non est violenta unum, bellatores, cum non sint. Suus ' magis consolatoria in his frigore menses. Qui manet in vincitur terra cantate laudes ad Brigid, dea veris et ignis. Illa dicitur adducam calor. Scio populi remansit in terra nostra non diu reliquit vivere, per decretum noster gloriosus Imperator, sed fortasse nos pervenire posset intellectus cum suis consanguineis? Tandem facere murum necessarium? Non credo, sunt barbari, ut diximus, fuit plumbum credere..._

I can make out a bit about Brigid and her comforting warmth, or some such, and a reference to their “glorious Emperor”, but that’s about it. I don’t even try to read the following section Mr Fell said went into detail about the rituals.

“I’m afraid I don’t read Latin very well,” I said apologetically. “But this sounds very interesting, and probably just the kind of thing Ms Winsley was hoping for. But wasn’t questioning orders and whatnot a death sentence in the Roman times?”

He pats my arm, still mildly engrossed in the text. “That’s alright dear. And it could be, depending on the when, where, and who. The Romans existed for quite a while, you know.”

My cheeks reddened at the gentle admonishment. I opened my mouth to respond, but a voice behind me spoke before I could. I jumped.

“In almost every controlling society, asking too many questions causes _falling outs_.”

“ _Crowley_ ,” Mr Fell said warningly. “We’ve been over this, just because some things aren’t good doesn’t mean they don’t lead to _good things_.”

I turned around to see a rather demonic-looking smirk on his husband’s face (still not over the marriage bit, they’re so _different_ ). 

“Seems like a bit of a euphemism to call executions ‘falling outs’, doesn’t it?” I asked Crowley (was his last name Fell?). He ignored me, however, just waving a hand at me as he addressed Mr Fell over my shoulder. 

“Nah, ‘course angel. We wouldn’t have the life we have now if I hadn’t Fallen, would I? Awful thing, but then came the arrangement and your shop and now I get to take the love of my life out to the Ritz whenever I feel like it. Asking questions is an excellent thing, always has been,” he tilted his head to look at me through those ridiculous shades. “Just has consequences, so just be aware before you let curiosity tempt you.”

Mr Fell sounded a little peeved behind me. “Almost like there’s a plan, hm, my dear? And please, if you want to go out to dinner tonight, just say so instead of, well, whatever this was.”

Crowley grinned. Were his canines _sharpened_? 

“Plan or no plan, angel, we shouldn't worry ourselves over something so _ineffable_.” He said it like some good-natured jab. Okay, now I was certain that they were talking about something I wasn’t meant to understand. They bickered like they’d had this argument a thousand times before and loved every second of it, but were pretending they didn’t.

“And you know I dislike it when you cramp my style. However,” he shot out his left hand, waving it in some impatient gesture. I noted a glint of gold and internally sighed. “ _if_ you do so insist, then, will you please accompany me on a lovely stroll through St James’ towards a lunch date, followed by a romantic dinner at the Ritz in the evening? Angel, darling, loving husband, willst thou come with me on a date?”

I didn’t have to turn around to know Mr Fell was rolling his eyes at Crowley’s dramatics. “Of course, my dear. Let me wrap things up here--”

“ _Quickly_ ”

“--yes, although I don’t know what’s got you so impatient. There’ll be plenty of time to see the ducks. It’s almost like they spend most of their lives in that pond.”

I giggled. “Ducks?” I asked innocently.

“Sssshut it.” Mr impatient hissed at me. He opened his mouth to sass his husband, but I all too gleefully interrupted him. “ But I thought asking questions was an _excellent_ thing,” I grinned.

Mr Fell stepped up beside me, chuckling. He eyed his mildly-seething husband meaningfully before addressing me. “He did say be cautious of the consequences, dear.”

“Oh, I remember, I just know now why you like him so much. He’s good fun to rile up, isn’t he?”

Crowley sputtered, but Mr Fell simply went and wrapped an arm around his waist. “Oh yes, I have a _wondrous_ time riling him up in the evenings,” he winked suggestively.

That was _not_ what I meant. Crowley’s face was at least twice as red as mine must’ve been. He practically melted onto Mr Fell, burying his head in the shorter man’s shoulder.

“Now, if you’ll be so kind, I’ll put that book back for you, and you tell your Ms Winsley that she’s welcome to come look at the folio anytime. I can translate anything in it for her that she wants.” 

I nodded meekly and handed over the journal I had kept tucked under my arm this entire time. I left the shop in a bit of a daze, head reeling with the revelations and strange conversations of the morning.

I could’ve sworn I heard a, “that one’s not so bad”, in a suspiciously Crowley-esque voice as I left, though.

Some blocks from the shop, nearing my townhouse, the daze lifted from my brain and I could think clearly again. Two thoughts made themselves known:

  1. They’re _both_ bastards.
  2. I had once again left without purchasing anything.



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The letter that mentions "the wall" is referring to Hadrian's wall, and thus takes place sometime between 117 A.D and 138 A.D. The wall was constructed when the Romans became more concerned with protecting what land they had conquered from the Celts rather than conquering more.
> 
> I wonder how much longer I can go without picking a name or gender for our narrator, lol.
> 
> Quick question for you, dear readers: do you think the "daze" that overcame the MC was due to the innuendo/ridiculousness of the husbands, or was is miraculous in nature??  
> I await your theories ^.^


	4. Snap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this is a short one, but the idea hit me and I was so amused I felt like I had to.  
> I hope you find it as entertaining as I did!

Ms Winsley was excited to hear about the folio, and impressed in Mr Fell’s linguistic ability. 

“I know a decent amount of Gaelic, but I’m by no means fluent. I didn’t expect he’d have primary sources on the stuff! I think I’ll head over after we close up shop on Thursday,” she had said.

I’d nodded. “Sounds like a plan. I think I’ll accompany you tomorrow, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course!”

But, as it turns out, my continued curiosity in the little shop couldn’t wait one more day. It was like some force was pulling me back, telling me to find out more about the couple that lived there, about the collection, even about the giant snake. It was just so strange.

So that afternoon had me restlessly wandering back to the shop.

To my delight, the sign read Open.

Maybe I would actually manage to buy a book this time, but somehow I doubted it. 

No one was at the register (per usual), nor was Mr Fell or Crowley or the snake hanging around the front of the store. I began to peruse the stacks, mildly disappointed when I heard voices coming from the back of the shop. I moved closer to investigate.

“So if I change my status to ‘inactive’, I will be left here unsupervised until I decide I wish to return to active status? No consequences?”

My ears pricked up. Who was Mr Fell talking to? Was he a spy? I’d thought Crowley the Mafia or Interpol type, not him. But then, I guess, that would be the point.

“Exactly. The process can take a bit, but the forms are fairly simple. Here look--”

That was a new voice, and it was rather unsettling. I wasn’t used to other people being in the shop, much less this Mr Mafia or whoever it was.

I moved closer, and accidentally stepped out into view of them. Drat. I was hoping to eavesdrop, but they were closer than I thought. Mr Fell was looking at some papers on the little table we’d been at yesterday examining the folio. Standing across from him was the strange man I’d heard. Crowley was casually leaning against the end of the aisle closest to Mr Fell. His demeanor seemed torn between a bodyguard and being incredibly bored.

The stranger was in a grey and white suit, with greying hair. Crowley and Mr Fell noticed me, and the stranger turned around when they looked up. I was shocked to notice his eyes were a bright violet.

“Er, sorry, I was hoping to, um, ” I stammered, having no idea what to say.

Thankfully(?), the violet-eyed man spoke before I was forced to come up with something. He whirled back to face Mr Fell.

“What is a human doing here?” he hissed, accusing.

Uh. What?

I felt my brain short-circuit.

“It’s a customer, you came during business hours, moron,” drawled Crowley.

Violet eyes seethed. “Shut it, you. I’ll just--”

_Snap_.

Huh, St James’ Park. When did I get here? Must’ve zoned out I guess. Maybe--

_Snap_.

“-- anything to inconvenience the archangel _fucking_ Gabriel.”

“Crowley, _no_.”

Mr Fell was exasperated at Crowley, but I barely had time to take this in and remember I had been at the bookshop before--

_Snap_.

Beautiful day out, really. I’d meant to stop by the bookstore this afternoon, I think, but it was a bit late for that now. I’d spent too much time wandering around the neighboring streets. I checked my watch and shrugged. Could go for an early dinner, I suppose. Italian, maybe? 

I’d have plenty of opportunity to peruse the bookshop tomorrow with Ms Winsley. The more I thought about it, the more fettuccine alfredo sounded really, really good. I hoped the restaurant I saw ahead, Il Buongustaio, had a good red wine that I could pair with it. I briskly walked towards it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is such an ass sometimes I love him so much lol. Can't blame him though, Gabriel is just *awful*.


	5. Making a sniend (snake friend)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof this one went a bit long. Might be some errors or some choppy bits toward the middle-end. I was getting impatient to finish and post it, so I wrote quicker than normal and didn't even give it a glance over before posting. Nonetheless, I hope y'all like it. I'll probably come back and read it over in the next day or so and try to edit out any errors. Updates have slowed bc the school semester has begun, but I still have at least a few more chapters worth of ideas. Shout out to Afrieal for being the reason our snoodle is going to get a sweater/blanket in a later chapter.  
> The bit between the pair of //'s is made up. Everything else is accurate to the best of my knowledge. The knitting magazine/book titles are real. I've never read any of them (found them via google), but if you have, please let me know what they were like!  
> Happy reading!

Thursday afternoon found Ms Winsley and I in the cab, as planned, on the way from the bakery in Clerkenwell to A.Z. Fell’s.

“Don’t get me wrong, Madame Chantal is wonderful to talk to, and her kids are the sweetest, but sometimes I really wish they would just _leave_.”

Ms Winsley hummed in agreement. “Yes, I understand, they tend to create quite the mess for us to clean up.”

“Exactly, and she’s always so apologetic about it, which makes me feel bad, but that doesn’t mean I’m less stressed about it during rush hour.”

“Never have the heart to tell her to go, though,” she murmured.

“No,” I agreed softly. “A mother and her kids don’t spend hours at a bakery nearly every morning for no reason.”

“Almost makes me want to open in the evenings too. I hope they have somewhere to go, then.”

“We don’t know what exactly is the problem. Maybe evenings aren’t an issue.”

“Perhaps.” Ms Winsley looked out the window, somber and thoughtful. “I hope so. The way little Cassandra startles around strange men though doesn’t leave me particularly optimistic.”

We lapsed into silence, but thankfully rounded the corner onto the bookshop’s street, so didn’t have time to get too lost in our own heads.

“Well then,” my boss said as we climbed out after she’d paid the fair, “let’s leave that in the car, shall we? This afternoon is about joyful erudite adventures.”

I attempted a smile, straightening my denim jacket and smoothing my shirt. I loved how Ms Winsley tended to increase the level of her vocabulary when changing from an uncomfortable subject. “Indeed! We have old goddesses to learn about today. Perhaps we can pray to them about this later after we learn how.”

The store was open, thank goodness. I held open the door and waved her in. “Thank you dear,” she said. “And I already know how to approach Brighid and Ceridwen, but we can certainly do something after _you_ learn about them.” 

Ms Winsley chuckled, finding herself amusing, and I gently closed the door behind us, shaking my head. Her tone had been fond, and I found myself wondering what exactly she meant. “Approach” as in prayer and offerings, as it was often used? Or as in _literally_ approach? 

My previous theories about why Ms Winsley held such a passion for learning about the Celts came to mind again. I added another: she was a minor goddess herself, but was estranged from her family and the other deities and was trying to figure out what they’d been up to in the past few centuries. I smiled to myself.

“He’s usually in the stacks or in this little lounge area in the back,” I told her, changing the topic yet again. “Watch your step though, his snake was on the floor when I came in once.”

“Oh, I remember you telling me.” There was a twinkle in her eye I didn’t particularly care for.

Just at that moment, Mr Fell came bustling around the corner of the Poetry aisle.

“Ah! I thought I heard someone come in,” he welcomed us warmly. “Welcome back, dear. And your companion must be…?”

“Ms Winsley, my boss,” I grinned. Boy I was doing a lot of smiling today. “The one with an interest in the Celts.”

Mr Fell reached out and clasped her hand. “Ah, I thought you looked familiar! You visit the garden center in Mayfair with that lovely woman from time to time, don’t you?”

To my surprise, Ms Winsley blushed. “I’m surprised you remember. Aoife and I have only been by a few times, and I don’t really recall seeing you there, if I’m honest.”

Mr Fell winked cheekily. “Of course, dear girl! My husband owns the place, although he usually entrusts it to his employees and spends his time over here. But we do go over from time to time, to check in on the plants and whatnot. I’m not surprised you don’t remember seeing me, young love can do that to a person.”

I had so many questions.

But firstly, “pardon me, Mr Fell, but aren’t you approximately the same age as Ms Winsley?”

“Oh no, dear, not at all. Now come on, let us go to the back so you can get a proper look at these pages,” he nodded at my boss and ushered us back to the sitting area, ignoring my protests and questions the whole way. When we go there, the little folio was already laid out, and his fine reading gloves beside it. Almost like he’d been waiting for us. Strange.

“Now,” he addressed my boss as the two of us sat down on the sofa, “how good is your Latin and Gaelic?”

“Of the two, I know more Gaelic, but forever the student and all that,” she smiled politely. Mr Fell nodded.

“Very good then, would you like to look over the Gaelic papers yourself? They’re not quite as old as the Latin ones, of course, nor have as much information, but there’s some interesting tidbits here and there. I can help with the translations if need be, and can translate the Latin for you.”

Ms Winsley eyed the ages-old papers dubiously. “I don’t think I’m qualified to handle such old documents, quite frankly.”

This seemed to please Mr Fell. Was that some sort of test? But really, he was bonkers for having old, fragile documents in a place like this and not in a museum. Was _he_ even qualified to handle these things?

“That’s quite alright then. Yesterday-- er, last time your protégé was here we were looking at this letter here.” He carefully ruffled through and pulled it out amongst the others.

“Protégé? I’m not--”

“Are you quitting the bakery?” Ms Winsley interrupted, looking at me sharply.

“What? No, I was just say--”

“Good, then hush up.”

I looked at Mr Fell, bewildered. He raised an eyebrow. I snapped my mouth shut and sat back on the sofa with a huff. Protégé, really? I just worked at her bakery. This wasn’t some Sherlock Holmes story or whatever.

Ms Winsley shook her head and went to sit in the armchair next to Mr Fell’s so they could look at the documents from the same angle.

I watched and listened as they dived into the text, but made no move to join them. Mr Fell quickly summarized what he’d told me the other day about the letter, talked about how he was pretty sure the mention of the ‘wall’ was in reference to Hadrian’s Wall (providing a pretty decent time-marker), and then directed her attention down to the bits pertaining to Brighid. 

//“Here it talks about how some families were known to keep lamps alight on certain days throughout winter, not just on Imbolc. She was one of the more powerful and revered Irish deities, you know,”

“Mhm, which is one of the reasons I’m interested in her.”

“Right, so according to our letter writer, based on what he heard -- I know not the most direct or trustworthy source of information, but some rumors is better than little to nothing at all, I think.”

Ms Winsley nodded. “Carry on.”

“Well, our author heard from the conquered peoples that it was imperative, in their minds, to keep lamps alight all night on particularly cold nights of the year, as something of both an offering and a prayer.”//

After about 15 minutes of their reading, I began to get bored. My eyes wandered. It was interesting stuff, sure (and I was still not over the fact that Mr Fell was apparently fluent in two mostly-dead languages), but this was my boss's area of interest, not mine. I quietly stood up, thinking to hunt down the arts and crafts section.

Their attention snapped to me. “Er,” I tried to think of how to phrase this so it wouldn't sound rude. “I'm sorry for disrupting you, it's just, um. Could you point me in the general direction of your knitting books? Or other yarn… things?” I shifted, embarrassed. 

Mr Fell smiled softly, “of course dear.” He gestured to his left, “that way, and down a bit. I think the relevant shelves are labeled ‘textiles’.”

I bobbed my head. “Thanks. And erm, sorry again.”

“No need to apologize.” It was Ms Winsley who spoke this time. “I'm sure we were boring you, I know this isn't really your passion. Thank you for bringing me here though, this really is a lovely place, just as you said.”

I looked at the floor, muttered something along the lines of “no problem”, and scurried off.

It took a bit, but I found the knitting texts a lot quicker than I had expected. And thankfully, most of them looked just regular old, not needs-to-be-in-a-museum old. I skimmed through the titles and flipped through the pattern booklets and magazines. Some that caught my attention were:

_The Second Treasury of Knitting_

_Knitting without Tears_

_Mosaic Knitting_

_Mary Thomas's Book of Knitting Patterns_

7 different issues of _Anna Burda_

_Makeover Ideas for the Entire Family_

An entire shelf of _The Workbasket_ magazines

_Faerie Knitting_

_No Idle Hands: The Social History of American Knitting_

After some consideration, I picked up a couple copies of _The Workbasket,_ the history book, and _Faerie Knitting_ , because I just _had_ to know what that was about. I walked to the end of the aisle, hoping to spot a chair to sit in. One of the store's walls was just a couple rows over, and to my relief I saw a red-brown leather armchair in a little niche created by the end of a bookcase-cabinet and the wall. I hurried over.

A few feet away from the armchair, however, I halted. There, coiled tightly in the seat I had wanted to occupy, was that blasted snake. And, unfortunately for my nerves, it had sensed my approach and woken up. An obsidian head lifted, yellow unblinking eyes staring at me. A little forked tongue flickered out, tasting the air.

“Er, hi Crawly. Sorry I was just-- I'll find somewhere else to sit.”

I don't know what possessed me to talk to the snake, but I almost immediately regretted it. In an eerily human-like manner, Crawly wagged his head from side to side, swaying slightly. Stupefied, I watched as he slowly slithered down from the chair onto the floor. Once all his coils were relocated, Crawly swayed his head between me and the chair, as if trying to say, “go on”.

Turning down the giant snake’s “offer” would probably be… unsafe. So of course the only thing to do was sit in the damn chair.

I swallowed and proceeded to cautiously approach the chair. I warily eyed the overly-sentient noodle, watching for any sudden moves. I was out of my mind.

Crawly stayed fairly still, although his neck (body?) continued to have an idle kind of sway to it.

Gingerly, I stepped over the end of his tail and sat down in the chair. I waited a moment or two, but Crawly didn’t move. So I shook my head and settled in properly. Put my reading materials down on my lap and opened the cover of _Faerie Knitting_. 

Of course, it was THEN that Crawly decided to move. He slithered to my foot and began to wind himself around my leg. I wanted to shriek, to kick him away, something, anything, but I was frozen in fear. All that happened was I dropped the book and my mouth fell open like a codfish. Within seconds, he had wound himself up to the armrest, and was making his way towards the back of the chair. When he began to climb up my arm I was shaken out of my shock and tried to move my arm away. 

_HISSSSSSSSSSSSS._

… aaand I was petrified again.

Crawly slithered up over my shoulder, behind my neck, and down and around my other arm, finally coming to rest his massive head on my left forearm.

I stayed still for what felt like an eternity. And perhaps it was. A small, but nonetheless unbearable, infinity*. Dwarfed by the age of the universe, by the number of thoughts held by humanity, and by my grandma’s love for cats, perhaps. But an infinite eternity all the same-- those seemingly endless moments were all-consuming, short-circuiting my brain and leaving only the image of slitted eyes behind.

(*I blame the novelist John Green for my introduction to different-sized infinities. I had never been spectacular at math, but thankfully you just need an understanding of logical thought to follow most papers on mathematical philosophy. Things will still go over your head, but alas, that’s math)

Am I being dramatic? Maybe. But it is no exaggeration to say that I lost all concept of time during those moments, and that this was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life.

Thankfully, the beginning of that infinity eventually found the end, and my brain rebooted. I was stuck with this bastard for the foreseeable future, so I might as well try and read something.

I didn’t dare move my left arm, and the Faerie book was firmly on the floor (sorry Mr Fell), but perhaps if I was slow, and careful, then maybe I could flick one of these magazines open with my right hand.

I began to inch.

Crowley’s head rose, tongue flickering out. I paused, my hand mid-air. He looked from my right hand to me, and settled back down on my forearm again. My hand restarted its journey, and I watched the serpent for any objections. He stayed put. 

My hand reached _The Workbasket_. I wanted to shout in triumph, but had the better sense not to.

I flicked through the magazine issues, skimming the patterns, always aware of Crawly in my peripheral vision. 

An hour or so passed like this, and I found myself gradually relaxing. He wasn’t doing anything, might’ve even been sleeping*, and his body was a comforting weight, really. My neck had a bit of a cramp in it, though.

(*his eyes were open the whole time, of course, because snakes don’t have eyelids. But as soon as I had this thought, I began to wonder if I’d really seen him wink that one time. It’d sure _seemed_ real, but perhaps it was a fluke of my imagination. Or not. Nothing regarding him seemed normal)

It was like this that Ms Winsley and Mr Fell found us as the sun started to lower in the sky.

“Oh my,” Ms Winsley gasped when she came out from the textiles section, clearly looking for me. “I know you said he was large, but I hadn’t _realized_ …”

Mr Fell followed close behind her and his eyebrows shot up. “I see you and Crawly managed to reconcile your differences. He doesn’t pick just anyone to be his space heater, you know. I’ll admit, I had been a bit concerned he hadn’t come to find me. Usually does in the evenings, especially in the fall as we head into the colder months.”

I wanted to retort that we hadn’t _reconciled_ , his bloody huge snake had just _done_ this, but something in Mr Fell’s sly smile stopped me. He seemed… almost proud. Of me or the snake I couldn’t tell, and it may not’ve even been pride I saw in that little quirk of his mouth, but there was _something_ there.

Something he had no intention to share.

In lieu of a biting or sarcastic remark, I slowly lifted my snake-laden shoulders in an approximation of a shrug. Ms Winsley shook her head, amused.

To my relief, Crawly seemed to take my shrug as a request that he get down, so he did. 

I’m not to proud to admit that his undulating length sent a shudder through me as he crawled up one side and down the other, lowering himself to the ground on the right side of the chair. He pooled underneath it, and I jumped up from as soon as his tail left my left arm. I hastily scooped up _Faerie Knitting_ off the ground and made my way to stand next to Ms Winsley and Mr Fell.

“The er, knitting magazines were very good, Mr Fell.”

He beamed, “I’m very glad you enjoyed them. A fan of the craft I take it?”

I shuffled my feet a bit. “Yes, um, there’s a circle I go to on Sundays. Do you-- um, how much for the magazines?”

Mr Fell’s smile faded and he pursed his lips. “I’m afraid I’d rather not deal with the register right now, dear. It’s a bit late, isn’t it?”

“Not re--” a sharp elbow hit me in my ribs. “Ow!” I glared at Ms Winsley.

She pretended not to see and snatched the books and magazines from my arms to hand to Mr Fell. “That’s quite alright, Mr Fell, we understand. We’ll head on home. I hope you and your companion have a lovely evening!”

She forcibly steered me to the door as Mr Fell called a “and a _blessed_ evening to you as well!” after us.

“What was _that_ for?” I hissed.

“You were being rude,” she hissed back.

“But it’s a book shop!” I whined. “He never--”

My boss interrupted me sternly. “You are _plenty_ old enough to know when you’ve overstayed your welcome.”

“But--”

“But nothing.” She opened the shop door for me and waved me through. I sighed, defeated. 

“Did you learn something cool about the Celts from those old records?”

Ms Winsley shot me an amused look but chose not to comment on the change of subject. “A bit, yes. But we can talk about that tomorrow. Right now I’m going to call a cab and head home, and you should too. You live around here though, right?”

“Just a few blocks north.”

“Walk on home then, and make yourself a nice cup of tea and get some food in you. I’ll see you tomorrow, and we can talk about our various findings then.”

“Yes, mom.”

She laughed. “None of that now! My, that snake left you in a right mood, didn’t he?”

I sulked and kept quiet. Ms Winsley shook her head fondly and patted my shoulder. “You have a good night, dear, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Good night, Ms Winsley,” I said as she walked off to hail a cab. She waved over her shoulder and was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's become a challenge to me to see how long I can carry on this story without indicating a name or gender for our MC. It's getting tricky, as multiple characters are interacting more and more. Can you spot the scene where I barely managed to avoid it?


	6. Kings of Minor Inconveniences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the gif to know what the yelling is about. And since I don't know how to put active links in the notes, the inspiration for this chapter is going to be linked under it. I do suggest you read the post before this chapter, but it's not completely necessary. What is necessary is that you know Crowley is a dramatic and petty bitch, and Aziraphale gives as good as he gets

<https://crwatters.tumblr.com/post/187860976184/humanityinahandbag-copperbadge>

* * *

The following day I did ask Ms Winsley about her research, as she had said we could talk about it. It seemed, however, that she'd changed her mind about telling me anything. Or, well, anything specific anyway.

“So, you read the passages about the winter rituals? Did they help?”

“Yes, we did. And a bit, yes. It was interesting to read about how they viewed Brighid.”

“Oh?”

“Mm. Oh, looks like we’re out of blueberry scones. Be a dear and put another batch in, would you?”

That first time, I didn’t think anything of it. But as the morning wore on, I asked her more questions, and she gave few responses. 

“What else did you two read about?”

“Oh, you know, Mr Fell had a few different accounts of the popular myths. The similarities and differences were intriguing. Oh, Madame Chantal, good morning!”

Later:

“So how did they view Brighid, according to that Roman guy?”

“Excuse me, I need to use the restroom.”

At first I was genuinely just trying to make conversation, but her continued evasion of the subject began to vex me. 

“So why are you interested in the Celtic goddesses?”

“Well, why did you first take up knitting?”

Like a goddamn fool, I let her prod me into an hour’s worth of rambling about parental issues and taking refuge with my grandma and how knitting was an excellent coping mechanism.

And it wasn’t just that Ms Winsley wasn’t feeling particularly talkative that day, no. She chatted with all the customers, and was all too eager to answer questions about her girlfriend.

“So, you’re seeing someone? And she likes gardening?”

“Aoife! And yes, she does, our porch is ridden with small berry bushes -- strawberries are her favorite, though they’re tricky in this climate-- and a few miniature roses.”

“You’re living together? Why doesn’t she ever come by the bakery?”

“She has a couple of times, actually, but you weren’t working those days. She’s not a morning person by any stretch of the phrase,” she smiled fondly. “But yes, we’ve been living together for nearly 9 months now. We were U-Haulers, if you must know. She just completely enchanted me. I’m supposed to join her family for the holidays this year, first time meeting the extended folks. I’m a bit nervous, to be honest, but I’d do anything for her. She’s so smart, and funny, and oh, she has the best jawline I’ve ever seen. And my! Her muscles! She teaches at a mixed martial arts gym -- picked it back up after divorcing her abusive husband -- and Aoife HAS to be the fiercest one there. It’s quite something to see her wipe the mat with a man twice her size…” 

And so on.

I learned a lot about Aoife (“darling Aoifie”, sometimes) over the next week, but my attempts to learn anything about her research with Mr Fell continued to fail. It was maddening. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the stories about her girlfriend, but wow. It was almost suspicious, and I gave some of my wilder theories about her obsession some more weight.

Cue exasperated sigh.

It was partly because of that, and partly because the ladies in my knitting circle were interested in some of the odder titles I’d seen, that I ended up returning to Mr Fell’s. Perhaps he’d be more willing to tell me about whatever it was my boss had been researching. And maybe, just maybe, I’d be able to buy one of those knitting books to show the circle. 

I wasn’t feeling particularly lucky, but it was worth a try.

The first thing I noticed, walking up to the store, was that the “open” sign was pushed flush up against the glass, and there was a small note taped on the wood just above the door handle. 

There was some sort of clear squiggly line on the border of the open sign. I squinted, and looked as I got closer. Was that-- yes it was! The sign was  _ glued _ to the glass. I huffed a laugh, and glanced down at the note, hoping it didn’t say they were closed regardless of the sign.

It didn’t. Oh, no, this was much better. In messy, scrawled letters, it read:

_ Husband is being infuriating. PLEASE COME IN and act like you’re INTENT on buying something (absolutely PESTER him), then leave empty-handed. Recount what you said on Twitter with #pettysnake and be entered to win a  _ _ £ _ _ 100 gift card to the store of your choice. Bonus entries for creativity. _

Oh,  _ damn _ , this was bound to be an interesting trip to the already weird bookstore.

And I was definitely going to look through that hashtag* later.

(*It was miraculously popular on all the accounts of local businesses. And it had even bled over to Facebook, too, with all the local pages and group chats chock-full of stories)

Shaking my head, I pushed the door open. 

Mr Fell, per usual, wasn’t at the front. But, from some thumps and muffled voices above, it sounded like he was upstairs. I mentally shrugged and walked over in the direction of the knitting books.

I was just starting to pull a couple of the books I didn’t get to last time off the shelf when I heard a distinct word from above:

“ _ DAYTIME! _ ”

Another word followed in quick succession, but it was harder to distinguish. Then, again:

“ _ DAYTIME! _ ”

The second word was a bit louder this time, and I swore it sounded like “Nighttime!” 

This repeated a few more times, and I was able to confirm that yes, indeed, the secondary word was “nighttime”.

What. On. Earth.

It wasn’t Mr Fell’s voice either. Might’ve been Crowley’s, but I’d never heard him with anything other than a drawl, so it was hard to say.

I was still standing there, book midair, squinting at the ceiling, trying to figure out what was going on, when I  _ did  _ hear Mr Fell’s voice:

“ _ THAT’S ENOUGH CROWLEY! _ ”

Ah, so it was his husband. Must be quite the row they were having, to merit the sign on the door, and… whatever this was. 

Crowley, however, didn’t seem fazed by Mr Fell’s demand. There was another muted “nighttime!” followed by--

“ _ DAY _ \--AAAAAA!” 

_ CRASH _ .

My eyebrows shot skyward, but I didn’t have much time to process what may or may not have just happened when I heard angry stomps heading towards--and then down-- the stairs. Thankfully this section wasn’t too far from the staircase, so my nosy ass had no problem rushing over just in time to see Mr Fell descending.

“--lightbulbs in the bathroom need replacing. I’ll show HIM nighttime-daytime. Have a word with the car, too,” Mr Fell muttered. His hair seemed unusually… bright.

Upon seeing me, surprise paused him for maybe half a second before he continued his determined march to the front of the store. Like a duckling with no sense of self-preservation, I followed.

He went behind the register and grabbed a pack of lightbulbs from under the counter, a set of keys, a box of salt, and what appeared to be a small silver cross. Mr Fell didn’t so much as look at me as he stomped his way to the front door. 

He attempted to flip the (superglued) sign, but flinched back as though burned. “Ack! Cursed, of course, the  _ absolute _ \--”

“Superglued.”

Mr Fell whirled to face me, eyes narrowed.  _ No bloody self-preservation _ , I thought to myself.

“Yes, my husband is a right twat. I’m going to leave for a bit. You will  _ stay here _ , and mind the shop.  _ No one _ , not even you, is to buy anything. Don’t  **_dare_ ** touch anything that looks more than a century old.  **_I will know if you do._ ** ”

I shivered involuntarily. His blue eyes seemed to nail me in place, and looking at him was like trying to stare into the sun. And his voice-- oh, his voice was terrible. Inhuman. Nothing like the kindly old man I’d come to know as the owner of this shop. Mr Fell was _ pissed _ .

I nodded vigorously. His shoulders seemed to relax just a fraction, and he stormed out of his shop, a strange assortment of items in his arms. I stood stock-still for maybe a solid minute, staring at the door that hadn’t quite slammed (this was somehow scarier than Mr Fell slamming a door).

What broke my vigil was the realization that there had been that rather extreme crash, and that only Mr Fell had descended. _ His husband was still up there _ , and possibly injured. As the sole other person in the shop, it was my duty* to see if he was okay. Besides, Mr Fell hadn’t told me to not go into his flat**, just not to buy anything. 

(*If this seems overdramatic, that’s because it is. I did want to make sure he was alright, but also I was incredibly curious what sort of domestic life a man like Mr Fell led-- this was simply a convenient excuse. Besides, I wouldn’t be up there long. Crowley was probably fine and would cuss me to hell and back to get back downstairs)

(**no self-preservation OR common sense)

So, I made my way to the stairs, just the right amount of urgency in my steps. The stairs creaked just as I suspected they should. My first observation upon completing my ascendence was thus: the flat smelled just as much of parchment-and-mildew as the shop downstairs. The second was: Mr Fell must lead an even  _ weirder _ life than I had suspected.

For there, on the floor of the entryway-that-morphed-into-a-living-room, was his husband, alright. Laying on his back, rubbing his eyes, and muttering curses in a variety of languages. Or at least I assumed they were all curses-- only recognized a few.

That wasn't what caught me like a deer in headlights though.

No, for all I might joke about Ms Winsley maybe being some character from a sci-fi book, I never actually expected to see something so…

Well.

Raven-black feathers curled around the body of Mr Fell's husband. Smokey grey poked through here and there, peppered with bits that could only be described as stars. The wings were  _ massive _ , each easily longer than Crowley himself.

And Crowley… Crowley was undoubtedly the owner of these monstrous things. They were  _ attached _ to him, and not in a costume way.

No, these motherfuckers  _ flapped _ .

They were twitching and spasming, knocking against the floor, the walls, the ceiling. They knocked a lamp over, and books off shelves. The living room was big, impossibly so, and could probably fit the wings just fine if Crowley had control of himself (which he obviously did not). The string of curses continued nonstop.

My bottom decided it was time to meet the floor.

Some minutes passed, the cursing slowed, and Crowley gradually seemed to regain control over his various appendages. Finally, he moved his hands from his eyes and attempted to fully open them.

This was a resounding failure, and he quickly shut them again, cursing some more.

That split second was all it took, though.

I now knew why Crowley wore glasses all the time. His eyes were slitted. Like a cat. Or maybe a snake? 

They were also bloodshot right now.

“What  _ happened _ to you?” The words slipped unbidden past my lips.

“ _ Hngk _ .” He tried, and apparently failed, to look at me. “Zira happened. You’re the knitter, ya?”

I nodded, then caught myself. “Yeah. Zira? You mean Mr Fell?”

The not-man groaned and rolled to one side, wings fluttering slightly. Crowley started to sit up, and his left wing knocked into the wall. He froze.

“ _ Fuck, _ I still have them out, don’t I ?”

“Have what…?” I said rather stupidly.

The hand that wasn’t propping him up rubbed his eyes. He tried squinting again. “Y’know. These--” he gestured to his feathers, “--bastards.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Hnmpph.” The wings vanished. 

I blinked. “Um, what? Where’d they go?”

“Elsewhere.”

“No shit,” I rolled my eyes, put at ease a bit by his usual asshole demeanor. “So, uhhh, what are you?”

“Demon,” Crowley muttered.

“Huh?” Had I heard that right?

“I'm a demon,” he repeated, and conjured a pair of sunglasses on his face.

Or, at least, I assumed that had been him.

“Witch demon or moral demon or Bible demon…?” I was back to being somewhat dazed.

“Uh, bit of everything, I think. You humans never seem to get the truth quite right.”

“Are you fucking with me?”

Crowley's shades were turned attentively towards me for a solid minute or so. I wasn't sure if his eyes were even open, much less if he was staring, but it sure  _ felt _ like it. 

“You--” the demon (apparently) nearly wheezed. 

I got the distinct sensation I was about to be made fun of, and opened my mouth haughtily (only to shut it again when I realized I had no idea what to say).

“You,” he tried again. “You saw my fucking  _ wings _ and me miracle glasses onto my face and still think--” Crowley gasped for air and then couldn't take it anymore and burst into the laughter he'd clearly been trying to hold back.

“The fuck was I supposed to know?” I asked, peeved.  
Once he’d quit laughing enough to respond, Crowley said, “No I'm not fucking with you! I'm a demon -- y’know, fallen angel and all that.” His brow furrowed, like he was squinting again, still adjusting to the light, apparently.

“Are-- are you all right then?”

“No, but I will be; it's not a big deal-- we were having a mild disagreement, and I got petty, that’s all.”

“And paid for it, looks like,” I shook my head. Then stopped. A bit of Ms Winsely had come out, it seemed. I winced internally, but continued. “Didn't know you guys even fought-- you seem like the perfect couple to me, you're both bastards.”

Crowley chuckled. “Well yeah, but that's really not the point. The point is, the point is we had a silly fight, kinda drunk, an argument and I thought he was being ridiculous -- can’t even remember what it started out about but then somehow it got around to-- well nevermind. I thought he was being ridiculous so I started being passive-aggressive, you know, be evil but not really bad -- so I thought, well I couldn't resist joke-- oh shut up.”

I hadn’t even said anything, wasn’t even laughing, technically. I raised my eyebrows and tried to be the picture of innocence. 

“So. Holy Light. Not healthy for demons,” he tried to stand again and fell, so he resumed sitting on the floor with an exasperated look on his face. “Right. So, Holy Light. Not good for demons, so not good for me. And well, you know, angels--”

“No, I really don’t.” Man, his snake eyes could _ glare _ . It was impressive -- I couldn’t even  _ see _ them, but I didn’t have to. How many years of wearing sunglasses does it take to perfect that kind of expression, felt not seen? Or was it a demon thing?

“-- are beings of light and holiness and stuff. I'm going to try to stand again,” Crowley gave me a significant look. I wasn't as nervous anymore, so I reached forward and helped him up. He leaned a shoulder on the wall and shook me off once he was on his feet.

Taking a deep breath, Crowley waved a hand and the bits and out-of-place things in the room rearranged themselves. I looked around, eyes wide. You would think nothing could surprise me after finding a man I thought to be human with wings in the flat of the strange book shop that I had already seen many strange occurrences (like a giant snake) in. But no. I was still surprised. 

Crowley unfortunately saw the look on my face. He sighed and said, “Right, sorry… I honestly wasn't entirely sure if you knew or not, considering your boss lady being in cahoots with Aziraphale, or whatever.” In something of a mutter he added, “still not sure what’s going on there,” before continuing; “but you don’t. Demons can do magic and temptations and such,” he gestured to his face, reminding me how he’d  _ conjured  _ glasses on just moments before, “I know that _ you're _ entirely human -- still not sure about that lady she's weird as all fuck.”

“You're telling me,” I murmured. It was a distracted response, breathed out as my mind tried to wrap itself around the concept of magic. _ Real  _ magic, not just the stuff of my imagination and hopeful ponderings.

“ _ You _ work for her. Voluntarily.” 

I chose to ignore that. He didn’t have a leg to stand on, (presumably?) working for the devil, anyway. “So, you guys like darkness and angels prefer light?” 

Still wasn't sure what all “demon” entailed -- could he kill me? Steal my soul? No idea; although I did wonder… that probably threw most of my theories about the Celtic goddesses and Miss Wensley out the window. Unless there was some sort of paradigm mixing, or maybe the Christians got it wrong? He _ did  _ say we never seemed to get the truth quite right. I put a pin in that thought for later. Right now there was a dark demon to deal with.

Crowley made a bunch of incoherent noises before settling on a simple “yeah”. Bit more complicated than that then, I guessed. Whatever.

“Okay. Dark, light, and you can’t see, so Mr Fell blinded you?”

“Yeah,” he winced. That seemed to be his favorite word, judging by the past few minutes. “Revenge for a shitty prank I was pulling.” 

“Prank?” 

Crowley’s face reddened and he looked away. “I was having a little game of nighttime-daytime, is all.” 

I burst out laughing. “You mean like that stupid stork thing in the meme from like 6 years ago?”

“It couldn’t have been 6 years ago, could it? Note to self: figure out how old that meme actually is. Anyway, yes that's what it's from,” Crowley said. “‘Zira has never seen memes really; he's not an internet person -- I mean he does have a computer, first angel to do so! No other angel has a computer nor knows how to use it -- they really should catch up because it's modern -- humans are doing all sorts of evil things on the technologies.” 

I nodded along, hoping he would get to his point. It was nice that he was being so talkative, compared to his normal sulky self, but I really wanted to know what the hell (heaven?) had happened.

“Yeah, so, nighttime-daytime: I have wings, I followed him around, and whenever he tried to read it was  _ nighttime _ when he looked exasperated it was daytime. Didn’t last for long.”

I started giggling again.

Crowley glared. “Shut up.” 

“So Aziraphale got annoyed? Mr Fell,” I paused. “Wait, which is his name?”

“His human name is AZ Fell, but his angelic name is Aziraphale.”

“I think I'll stick with Mr Fell.” I decided.

Crowley waved his hand. “Don't care.”

“So, Mr Fell blinded you -- with holy light? -- because you kept stealing his reading light, essentially, Crowley?” I paused, looking for approval. 

“I guess, yes.” He quit leaning on the wall, and seemed to stand fine on his own, if a tad wobbly.

“What about the note on the door?” 

He cackled and had to lean on the wall again. “Yeah, yeah, that was me. Real doozy, too. You should  _ see _ the things people have come in and done after I put that up! Teens are the BEST.” 

I smiled, then faltered. “...you might want to go take that off.”

“Why?” his glasses turned back towards me, puzzled. 

“Mr Fell left a little while ago, before I came up here and after you fell. So he's got to come back at some point, right, and he's bound to see the note and you just got blinded over--”

“Oh  _ shit _ ,” said Crowley. 

He went to scramble down the stairs, long spindly legs barely finding each one -- as wobbly as he was, it might’ve been a miracle. I followed quickly, watching him worriedly. Couldn't do Crowley any good to fall again, even if he wasn't human, right? 

We rushed through the shop and got to the front desk as quick as can be -- but we were already too late. 

Mr Fell had started to pull open the front door, but paused before he could even trigger the bell. He pursed his lips and tore it off; opened the door and stormed in, not-quite slamming* it behind him. When he saw the two of us, Mr Fell stopped and shook the note at Crowley.

(*that was STILL scarier than him actually slamming it)

“I assume this is  _ more _ of your fine work?” There was a hint of something notedly  _ non-angelic  _ in his eye.

“Right, er, well. Bye now!” Crowley spun on his heel and vanished* from this plane. 

(*Another thing he could do, apparently. I suppose the real question is, what _ can’t _ a demon do?)

I was surprised and more than a little scared to be in the bookshop ALONE with a _ very  _ upset angel. “Hi Mr Fell,” I waved meekly, “I'm sure Crowley didn't mean much by the note and whatnot -- I hope you guys make up soon -- and don’t worry I didn’t touch your books! -- but I’ve  _ got _ to be going.” I tried to rush past him for the door but _ of course _ Mr Fell caught my arm. I froze, terrified. 

Mr Fell opened and then closed his mouth. “Right, er, go back to your bakery or what have you. Crowley isn’t sorry about things yet, but he will be soon.”

He let go of my arm and I ran out the door, not wanting to even consider what he might’ve meant by those ominous words.


	7. Bonus chapter: #pettysnake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some of the posts you might see if you looked up #pettysnake on Twitter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've made this fic my nanowrimo project, so HOPEFULLY you'll be getting more updates from me this month. No promises though, bc I'm notoriously bad at finishing these kinds of challenges. Imma do my best tho!
> 
> This is a "bonus" chapter bc it's snipped from the universe's social media and isn't tied to the MC. We might have interrupting and/or intermission chapters later that are from another character's perspective. We'll see tho. I really am just kinda making this up as I go along-- I have some semblance of a plan, but it's pitiful really.
> 
> Anyway, I hope yall continue to enjoy!

**Twitter: search results for #pettysnake**

@cooledesto

I went to AZ Fells just now and asked for a book that isnt out yet. He seemed irritated, didnt even look it up! Disappointed he didnt discover my joke. Idk what he did to his husband deserve this lmao, but I LOVE this hashtag #pettysnake

@SohoSource

Sent one of 9th year journalism students to do an interview on the infamous snake at Fell’s, however the snake did not appear to be present and Mr Fell refused to comment. The student is now wondering if #pettysnake is somehow related?

@LondonLore

If Fell’s bookshop didn’t have a solid entry in our lore records before, it definitely would after the trending of #pettysnake, LOL

@UniRomantic

Went and poked around the store, hadnt been before but @Hailytish told me about this contest thing and I could use the money lmao. Pestered Mr Fell about his first edition copy of Pride and Prejudice, no success, of course #pettysnake

@SizzlingSing

Fell THREW HIS COCOA at me for asking why he didn’t have any old bibles WITHOUT typos. Like what??? #pettysnake

@bootynlet

Did anyone notice that Fell’s hubby may be upset but his request was that no one buy any books? Normally this would seem mean, but legend has it Fell HATES selling books. Kinda sweet? I guess? #pettysnake

> @crispred
> 
> Replying to @bootynlet
> 
> Yeah but I thought the whole doesnt-sell-books shit was a joke?? Does he really not sell anything??
> 
> @LondonLore
> 
> Replying to @bootynlet and @crispred
> 
> As far as we can tell based on our records and collected stories, it is in fact very rare for a customer to leave w/a purchase, and several people have noted Mr Fell’s reluctance to do normal sales things, like hold predictable hours
> 
> @bootynlet
> 
> Replying to @LondonLore
> 
> Do you happen to know the husband’s name? I think I’ve seen him once or twice but I’ve never actually heard his name
> 
> @LondonLore
> 
> Replying to @bootynlet
> 
> We have 12 records of him being referred to as “Anthony” and 28 times of him being referred to as “Crowley”. Not sure if Crowley is his last name (did they not hyphenate?) or a nickname, or what
> 
> @bootynlet
> 
> Replying to @LondonLore
> 
> Blesssss
> 
> Yall do the lord’s work, fr

@smught

I managed to waste 1hr of Mr Fell’s time going round picking out mystery novels and insisting on buying them, b4 putting them all back when I realized I was gonna b late for my doc appt. This’s a good entry, ya? #pettysnake

@Hailytish

I brought 3 books to the counter and put on my best “old white entitled lady” impression on and DEMANDED he let me buy them. Ended my “rage” by saying “Well then! You’ve just lost a valuable customer!” XD #pettysnake

@ReptileMatrix

Think I maybe crossed a line. Asked if the snake was for sale, or if he bred it, if I could buy any offspring. Was mostly kidding. Didnt go well. DONT recommend #pettysnake

@starket

Mr Fell is apparently supportive of fanfiction -- we ended up agreeing that one of it’s redeeming qualities is that it doesn’t (usually) get sold. Then got into a disagreement about what constituted bible fanfic. Whoops. 1/2

> @starket 
> 
> He didn’t ask me to leave in the same sort of way others have talked about, tho, just hid in the back until I left. So, some good, some bad. He’s a nice man, in my experience, if a bit of a bastard. 2/2 #pettysnake

@VampShot

Surprised no one’s asked about the connection between #pettysnake and Crawley, the store snake. If Fell’s husband is Crowley (p sure that’s his name), then imma guess the snake was a gift and fell named it after him, which is SO SWEET 

> @PodJo
> 
> Replying to @VampShot
> 
> I think this is vvv likely!! I also think it’s possible fell is in on this prank thing, somewhat. Might be an advertising thing or smth. Bc surely he’s got to be aware of a note on his door?? See it when he comes and goes?

@Juncode

I think it’s kinda problematic to set the public on your husband. I think they need marriage counseling, does anyone have a good counselor we can rec them?? #pettysnake

> @crossedBel
> 
> Replying to @Juncode
> 
> Yeah I agree, it’s really toxic to pull something like this; why are people endorsing it??
> 
> @TheKrypto
> 
> Replying to @Juncode and @crossedBel
> 
> I think @forlifeCounseling does couples counseling. But idk, maybe this isn’t toxic at all, maybe they have some sort of agreement about teasing and banter and acceptable levels of pettiness? 
> 
> @TheKrypto
> 
> Replying to @Juncode, @crossedBel, and @TheKrypto
> 
> ive known some ppl whove been married a long time and do stuff like this, but not usually involving a twitter hashtag lmao
> 
> @forlifeCounseling
> 
> Replying to @Juncode, @crossedBel, and @TheKrypto
> 
> We cannot make a judgement based on rumor; however if you talk to them directly and they wish to schedule a consultation, they may reach us as 020-348-9200
> 
> @sk8rstring
> 
> Replying to @Juncode
> 
> Idk I think it’s probably foreplay or some kind of kink. Have you seen his twink husband??? The pair of them is def into kinky shit
> 
> @jeansli 
> 
> Replying to @Juncode and @sk8rstring
> 
> Oh yeah I’ve always thought Mr Fell would probs be a sub/ into punishment
> 
> @vivalaHero
> 
> Replying to @Juncode, @sk8rstring, and @jeansli
> 
> Are you kidding??? If anything, Crowley’s the sub. He’s got BIG bottom energy
> 
> @TheKrypto
> 
> Replying to @Juncode, @sk8rstring, @jeansli, and @vivalaHero
> 
> Guys have you forgotten Crowley is gonna look thru this tag? Maybe don’t speculate about their sex life online
> 
> @Juncode
> 
> Replying to @Juncode, @sk8rstring, @jeansli, and @vivalaHero
> 
> Can yall take this ridiculous convo somewhere else and get out of my replies

@KixTrix

Wasnt sure if I was gonna join the prank or whatnot, but ended up just taking a nap on one of the couches on accident. Yeek. idk if this counts, but imma enter it anyway, & can I just say the shop’s energy is super healing?? #pettysnake


End file.
